But Who Will Bring Them Flowers?
by Myradream
Summary: Mixture of Musical and Book. A bit of both. The story of Azelma's fate and what happens to her after that fateful day at the Barricade. How she copes with the loss of her siblings, and later of the loss of her freedom. Her parents have sold her maidenhead to a wealthy American sociliate. Will this be the answer to her prayers for a way out, or a nightmare? Rated M for later.


Azelma hurried down the cobblestones of the Parisian streets that led to the ABC Cafe. She slowed as the familiar structure came into her view, and her hand tightened on the flowers she had plucked from a garden on the way. It was her favorite place for flowers, the variety in color and species. She held lilies now, and was grateful that the old widow who frequently could be seen watching her from the dust covered windows of her dilapidated manor and her failing eyesight, or forgiving nature.. The garden was the only thing that showed the signs of upkeep, indeed, she occasionally had to scurry away, if he happened to be working tat day, and as the summer began to fade into fall, she was emboldened.

She knew soon that winter would take hold of the city, and natures bounty would retreat under layers of slush and ice. She vaguely wondered what she would do when that time came. Where would she find flowers? She shook the thought off, and studied the street. The place where she had gone from one of three, to one. She had lost her younger brother, and her eldest sister, and without fail, every day, she found herself here, paying homage to them.

Her ragged boots clicked on the stones as she moved from the front of the building to the alley. That was where she had seen them, the morning after the attack. Lined up, like so many pieces of wood, waiting for the fire. She began to scatter the white lilies down the length of the alley. The blood had faded from the stones, and she had only her memories to remind her, and the windows that hadn't yet been repaired, and the scattered indentations where bullets were still embedded from the attack. The man who had owned the Cafe had found himself dead and piled in this very alley, and no one had begun repairs upon it.

The abandoned building had become home to several of the orphaned street urchins. It was a mostly intact roof above them, and with the threat of winter just around the corner, they were grateful for shelter. The first few nights after the bodies had been removed, she had even slept there herself. Not wanting to go home.

She had told her parents of what had happened to Eponine and Gavroche, the images of them laying dead on the ground still vivid in her mind. She'd burst through the door, the terrible news spilling forth like vomit. Her Mother had moved to sit down on one of the chairs that comprised their living and dining area. Bending her face into her hands, silent. Her Father's response had extinguished any lingering feelings of affection toward the man that their shared blood had inspired.

"That's two less mouths to feed. We should be celebratin'!"

He'd proceeded to pour three smudged glasses of what was left of the dregs of a few wine bottles he'd been saving for just such an occasion. She'd left that night, and wandered the streets, unfrightened of any danger finding her, and surprisingly none followed her. She'd slept on the steps of Notre Dame that night and was woken at dawns first light with a pail of cold water in her face, from the elderly nun who had been assigned to washing the steps before the crowds began for their confessions and candle lighting.

Sputtering, she'd hurried away from the Cathedral, and before she had known where she was going, she had found herself in the alley. She had fallen out of favor with her parents by staying away, and refusing to contribute to the family efforts of thievery and deceit. What she stole, she stole for herself, and then there were the flowers. She didn't consider that stealing. That was simply relocating. She gazed at the flowers from her previous visits below the newest layer. They were in various state of death, rot and decay, the sweet and acrid mixture reminding her of death. Only the smell of gunpowder was missing, and she climbed up some of the furniture that had been stacked, too broken, or damaged to have been claimed by any of the thieves. She had fashioned herself a kind of chair, or throne, of the broken pieces, and though it was not structurally sound it did well enough for her slight weight.

She'd always been small. A wisp of a girl. Her maturing body had surprised her more then anyone, and her Mother had noticed it regardless of the shapeless clothing she preferred to hide under. She'd attempted to force her into a profession that she promised would be lucrative, but so far, Azelma had avoided her Mother's persistence, but she feared that eventually she'd be shoved into such a thing. She shoved away the unsettling thoughts of what future her parents had planned for her, and settled in her chair, drawing her knees to her chest, her skirt long enough to still cover her knees as she considered for the not the first, and certainly not the last time how unfair and cruel life was. How Gavroche and Eponine could be dead buried in a paupers grave because she couldn't afford the burial costs, and her Father had told her there was no point in wasting money or breath on the dead.

The cruelest part of all was that her parents lived, and seemed to thrive as the days turned to weeks. Despite often wondering at the existence of a higher being, or the cruelty of that being to have allowed such an outcome, she still found herself praying every night for the peaceful rest of her siblings, and for a chance to get away from them, so she didn't meet a similar unnecessary death.

The answer to her prayer came in an unexpected way. She'd fallen asleep on her perch, after weeping herself into exhaustion, and she wasn't at home for dinner. Her Father had sent one of the members of the Patron-Minette on the mission of seeking her out, and in the twilight, Babet found her slumped in the alleyway.

He gazed at the flowers, eyebrows raising. An unexpected stab of sympathy hitting him for the adolescent before her. It couldn't be easy, he mused, living with the parents she had, the life they had, and having lost her big sister, and that mouthy snot of a little brother. As soon as the moment had arrived, it was gone. He hadn't spent that long thinking about his own wife and children, and such uncomfortable thoughts were not welcome, unless they helped him achieve his ultimate goals of food in his belly, a whore in his bed, and stolen item or two in each hand.

He approached her, and with a tug he dethroned her, catching her and holding her up as her eyes widened in terror, from the sensation of falling and landing and being grabbed. She was instantly on the defensive, and he laughed, holding her still, one hand tightening around her forearm.

"I've been sent to fetch you. Careful now, I'd hate to have to hurt you before your big day…" His voice ringing with warning.

She froze in her struggle, recognizing his gruff voice, recognizing it almost as easily as she did his stolen top hat. Attempting to process his words, and coming up short due to being woken so sharply from her slumber. One she had been running with Gavroche in a meadow, as Eponine watched them. She had been leaning against a tree, plucking the petals of a flower, her lips moving, but Azelma and Gavroche were just far enough away in their attempt to catch each other along the green lush rolling hills, that she couldn't hear her sisters voice.

When his grip tightened on her arm she hissed in response at the accompanying surprising pain, once again drawing her from her reverie, she flashed her dark eyes up to him, her honey-brown hair a little mussed from her sleep and surprise descent. Strands having broken free of her braid, a frayed ribbon that had been her sisters holding the end of the braid. A strip of blue velvet, Eponine had cherished and Azelma hadn't parted with since finding it near the pillow of the small bed they had shared. The hand of the arm he wasn't holding moved to it instinctively, stroking the worn indigo fabric for comfort. "What do you mean? What nonsense are you talking?"

His laugh filled the air as he enjoyed filling in the blanks for her. "Why, Azelma, I simply mean to say you're no longer to be a Jondrette, nor a Thenardier. You'll have a new last name and you'll be living in another country. One with Heathens. " He grinned, his gap toothed breath reeking of ale that had gone bad, either before he drank it or in the depths of his bowels.

She ignored him, breaking free from the grip on her arm, her hand moving to rub where he had grabbed her. She bruised easily, and she was certain there would be a mark there. He hummed irritating songs that reminded her of funerals and weddings, as she made her way back to the hovel that she had never once called home.

Her Mother was there to great her, surprising Azelma as she watched her Mother nearly topple over the dining room table, surprisingly laden with food. She frowned, alarm beginning to settle over her like a cape, finally disentangling herself from the arms of the woman who had pushed her into the world. She surveyed the scene before her, and sighed. Asking. "Who did you rob this time?"

And her Father's throaty laugh, accompanied by the sound of the slap of his hand on his thigh. "Why, Azelma. You paid for this! Well… we were sent a little bit of money to make sure you are.. eh.. how shall we say… well provided for. Your new Husband would want to make sure you're healthy and taken care of. And he's a good man, Zel. Even wants to take care of your parents. Now, we won't be joining you this voyage, he wants to meet you first, make sure you're everything we've promised. And you will be."

Her Mother was beside her in a flash, beaming. "Who knew your wish to keep those thighs of yours closed would prove to be so valuable. French women with their maidenheads intact go for a goodly sum in The New World. ."

The room begin to spin as the fears that had started to grow somewhere in the depths of her belly with Babet's teasing warnings, came into very clear vision. The words that escaped her lips were likely nonsensical to all of those present.

"But who will bring them flowers?"

Babet was ready to catch her, and did so with practiced ease after her big brown eyes rolled back into her head, her lashes fluttering. More then one woman had lost consciousness in his presence, and he knew what to watch for. He set her unceremoniously in her waiting chair at the dinner table, and grinned between the elder Thenardier's.

"Well, that went well. Good thing it wasn't that other daughter of yours. 'Ponine would have stabbed at least one of us with that knife. " He nodded to the serrated blade that sat next to the freshly made bread on the table, beside the bowls of potatoes, green beans, and the succulent ham. Her parents had been paid well for her to be sent over, and they'd not waited for the guest of honor to begin eating. The woman sat back down after Azelma was safely tucked into her chair, jabbing at the ham with the fork, her eyes following his to the blade.

" Yes. Azelma never gave me the trouble her sister did. She'll see to it that we're living good in America. My darling even has dreams of owning a plantation. " She grinned over at her husband before jabbing the pink meat into her mouth, continuing to speak as she chewed. Slaves, and tobacco, and lemonade. People to wait on you hand and foot. You could come with us Babet… You'd be a good overseer."

Her Husbands eyes followed hers to his business associate. He'd hoped to cut all ties with those in Paris so that no one but his family was aware of his previous… career choices. All the same, Babet had shown himself to be a useful. "Let's get this one married first." He decided upon, and returned his attention to the mean before him, shoveling the bounty into his mouth, as Babet joined them at the table. Breaking bread that the unconscious girl, slumped in the chair across from him had bought without her consent, or knowledge.


End file.
